


A Single Drop of Source

by Ryrye



Category: Divinity: Original Sin (Video Games), Dragon Age (Video Games), Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, M/M, Original Character(s), Out of Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-05-16 06:01:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19312093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryrye/pseuds/Ryrye
Summary: Schitt's Creek characters set in an alternate universe where magic (Source) exists. References to Divinity Original Sin and Dragon Age lore.Not a fully-fledged story.





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work here on AO3. 
> 
> This story is something that I want to work on whenever I feel inspired. It is by no means polished or coherent or complete.
> 
> It is something that's been on my mind for a while. I expect to revisit these chapters and re-write them as the story unfolds.

[There](https://youtu.be/DN-Dcwq4i2g) is a folktale about a hero who slayed a god

In order to bring water and peace to their people

The hero, Kefmath, _the sword_

The god, Belkrieve, _the depth_

It is a story told again and again

With the same ending:

Kefmath slayed the selfish god Belkrieve and took their dripping heart

Thus saving the kingdom, and its people, from withering away

The people claimed the god’s heart as theirs

As a trophy, as a right

And stored it deep, deep beneath the kingdom,

Where other secrets were buried and forgotten,

Where the heart would pour its tears for eternity

Keeping the kingdom alive

As it softly pulsed to a mournful song no one could hear

Time passed

And the story stayed the same

The same ending, every time

People changed and institutions were built

But still, the children heard the same story

This is one such story

But with a different ending


	2. A Walk to the Square

[David’s eyes open and he knows he’s alone](https://youtu.be/yuLQeulQDYM).

He stares blankly at the wooden nightstand beside the bed as the memory of last night slowly returns to him. There’s a clay vase resting on the nightstand that holds a single wilting lily. David’s brows furrow. He had met someone after work yesterday, _a student from the Magisterium_ , he recalls, and they talked over a few drinks and then one thing led to another. He begins to register other things as he reaches wakefulness: the bed sheets are pooled around his middle, his toes are cold, the late morning light streaming through the open windows, and there’s a slight burn on his thighs where the guy must have raked his nails. He can’t remember the guy’s name.

David shifts upright and cards his hand through his mussed hair. _Not that it matters_. He surveys the room; it’s in disarray from last night’s frenzied activities. David pads around and puts on his clothes as he collects them. Out of habit, he checks the inner pocket of his pants to make sure his coin pouch is still there. The soft clinking of coins gives him a numb sense of relief. He steps into the adjacent wash room and spends some time tidying himself up the best he can. His reflection in the mirror stares back with dark circles under his eyes.

With a feeling of something close to resignation, he exists the room and climbs down the stairs to the ground level of the abode, pushing out of the front door and squinting as his eyes adjust to the sunlight.

Immediately, he is inundated with the sounds and sights of the late-morning bustle. It’s easy enough to blend into foot traffic and leave the house and the nameless guy behind, with his memories along with it. The sky is its usual cerulean blue, vast and perfect, while the white-hot sun hangs above. People are going every which way while dressed in their usual flowy garb and sandals, tracking footprints on the dry earth. _Clay tones are popular during the summer, after all_. The distinctive sand-stone walls of the buildings facing the main thoroughfare seem to glow under the oppressive heat; the red gems lining their edges gleaming in the sunlight.

The ruby-red gems match the robes of a group of Magisters who tread past in the opposite direction. They are conversing among themselves, too quiet to be overheard by the surrounding rabble. One of them glances up curiously at David. David quickly averts his eyes.

The thoroughfare widens to siphon folks into the large square marketplace. The fountain at the center of the square is, as always, a sight to behold. It’s an architectural marvel as well as a stunning aesthetic landmark: standing as tall as a sand-sailing ship and bejeweled with rocks and gems, it represents the innovation possible when Knights and Magisters work together. It spouts water supplied by the kingdom’s network of aqueducts to combat the bristling heat, which then evaporates into a mist which cools the surrounding populace as they shop and bargain for goods. The mist is converted back into water by Source to repeat the cycle throughout the day. The most striking aspect, of course, is the centerpiece. A large stone statue of Kefmath, cut into a realistic likeness. _Or so they say_. The fabled hero stands solemnly in the classic knight at attention stance, decorated in full armor, both hands resting atop the pommel of their blade, which is pointing downward into the fountain's pool while jets of water stream around them. If David were to walk closer he would see the plaque along the fountain’s side recounting the hero’s valor.

 _If_ , but won’t. Because like with many beautiful things in life, children are clamoring about to ruin it--splashing in the fountain water--David grimaces--and some outright drinking directly from the pool itself.

As he draws closer to the fountain on his way to the opposite side of the square, a gaggle of children barrel past and he drowns his hearing instinctively. The din of the market square and its denizens fade away, as if David dipped his head underwater. It’s always been easier for him to handle things this way.

As David meanders among the stalls while heading toward the opposite side of the square, a certain stall catches his attention. He can’t hear very well, but his eyes are drawn to the colorful feathers adorning its awning. Feathers are often a gaudy marketing choice-- _as Alexis would say_ \--but David can’t help but be intrigued. Stepping closer, he can see that a single lady sits behind the stall, visibly aged even from this distance, but also radiating a welcoming aura that-- _certainly_ \--is as warm as the shawl draped over her shoulders in this heat. But something else that grips his attention, and his heart with it. The woman is selling Source products. And her stall is _tiny_.

The woman's stall is situated between two much bigger and more established stalls, one selling prime cuts of meat and the other selling clothes and textiles. The others look sturdier, too, with hardwood planks that are painted with flourishes of the owners’ names. Her stall appears to have been cobbled together by her own hands. The other stalls have their business licenses--official sanctions  from the Merchant Guild--on display. Hers, glaringly, does not. On the little counter space she has-- _and must have fought for, to set up shop between two juggernauts_ \--she has arranged a selection of tinctures, poultices, and other sundries with weathered placards detailing each. All clearly Source-based. David follows his feet and gives the lady a nod when she says something he can’t hear. He makes a show of perusing each of the products and eventually settles on a salve made of herbs Sourced to soothe the skin damaged by the sun. _Which is ingenious, really_. David leaves more coins than is owed on the counter top and, with a quick parting smile, walks away with his purchase.

But even as he walks farther away and the sounds of the crowd swim around him, he knows that a chord has been struck. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say that something that has been bubbling inside for a long time is finally beginning to breach the surface. He can’t name it just yet, but he can almost _taste_ it. As if on cue, a delicious, buttery scent wafts forward just then, making him yearn to taste something else.

An unexpected side effect of drowning his senses is that his remaining ones are heightened, which means that food, in all its glory, becomes even more of a feast for all of his senses. David recognizes the smell instantly and turns around to find the source: an unassuming street cart that sells pastries and other assorted treats, baked fresh every morning. And David is just in time to buy from their fresh batch. 

He knows he isn’t the most graceful runner, but freshly baked pastries is one hell of an incentive to get over his self-consciousness. The vendor’s body shakes with hearty laughter after turning away from the stone oven and seeing David first in line. David doesn’t even need to say his order; he’s visited enough times that on most days the kind baker prepares his order as soon as he catches sight of him. The vendor hands David his prize in a pocket of wax paper: a golden bun with sweetened dried berries folded into the dough, still warm and slick from melted butter. David thanks the vendor, probably too loudly because of his deaf ears, and makes his way to the edge of the square to enjoy his treat.

Just as Daivd is about to bite into the sweet bread, he trips, inconceivably, on air. For one frozen moment he tries to catch the bun in between his teeth as it falls, but it’s no use. The bun hits the ground with a puff of earthy dust, damning it from fulfilling its purpose of being eaten.

David can’t control it, it spews forth as inexorably as the fountain’s water: he shrieks in shock and dismay. Distantly, he thinks his little outburst was much too loud because his hearing is off and he’s sure he’s attracted a crowd of gawkers at this point, but all he can do is stare despondently at his poor, ruined sweet bread.

Just as David is considering picking it back up and brushing off the specks of dirt, he feels a tap on his arm. He whips his head to meet the warmest pair of amber eyes he’s ever seen. The eyes belong to a man with other strong features: the bridge of his nose, the cut of his jaw, the corners of his amused smile. Even though the other man is a few inches shorter than David, his posture and solid build give him a presence bigger than himself. He’s wearing full armor with the signature blue cape and a sword sheathed at his side-- _a knight on patrol, then_. David drinks in these little details as he gathers his wits. From the concerned yet wry look on the knight’s face, it looks as if he’d been trying to capture David’s attention for a while.

The knight’s chrome-plated fingers are still lightly resting on David's upper arm; a grounding touch. Fighting the blush rising to his cheeks, David draws his hearing out again. It’s almost too much, at first, it always is, and the layers of sounds wash over him like waves. The knight waits patiently as David re-acclimates, his mouth and eyes still smiling.

“I’m sorry?” It’s all David can think of to say to break the awkward silence.

The knight lowers his gauntleted hand. He nods to the soiled bun on the ground, then shakes his head in sympathy. “It’s a real shame, that is. Krem’s baking is almost too good for this world.”

David blinks at the knight’s unexpected humor. Exhaling through his nose, he bends down and picks up the bun with the wax paper it came with. He may be clumsy, but he’s not wasteful. He eyes the treat, now covered in a healthy amount of dust from the ground, and looks at the knight again, almost furtively.

“They are,” David states. Then backtracks, “too good for this world, I mean.” He looks down at the dirty sweet bread, then at the knight. “So it would be very tragic to let it go to waste,” he asserts, in his best attempt to sound completely rational.

“A travesty,” The knight intones, face serious but eyes betraying his mirth by crinkling at the edges.

David, feeling like an utter loon, does another round of looking down at the bun and then at the knight. He considers it for only a moment before letting out a frustrated sound in defeat. “ _Fine_ ,” he bemoans, folding the paper around the treat to dispose of it later.

The knight’s expression brightens as he laughs freely and openly. _It’s a good look on him_.

The knight takes a step closer and the sun feels hotter on the back of David's neck, all of a sudden. “Let me buy another one for you,” the knight offers, his hands resting on the pommel of his sword in a casual stance. He gazes up at David straightforwardly, all confidence and sincerity.

David doesn’t know how to respond. His lips shape several words that never leave his mouth. The effect surely makes him look like a gaping fish, which causes the blush to turn hotter on his cheeks. He doesn’t know what he would’ve said because in that moment taut with anticipation, the square fountain releases torrents of water upwards into the air, one stream for each hour of the day that has passed. The children standing nearby cheer with glee at the display. David takes hold of the distraction like an anchor in a storm. _5 hours past dawn._

“Um, sorry,” David starts, sounding strained even to his own ears, “I have to go.” He lifts up a hand without thinking to give some sort of wave, but then realizes that it’s the hand that’s holding the bun and has to jerk his hand to keep from dropping it again. Completely mortified, David gives a sloppy salute instead with his other hand and retreats out of the square.

David doesn’t see the knight return his salute with a crisp one of his own or the fond look that overcomes the knight’s features as David leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not completely happy with this one, but I'm relieved that I got something down at least. I can go back and edit this later to tie up any loose threads.
> 
> I wasn't planning on using so many references to water in this prose (e.g., inundated, drowning, swimming, etc.) but I like it. I want to continue that theme since water plays a big part in this story.
> 
> I'm also trying to find ways to make sure that the subject of an action is not confused when multiple subjects use the same pronoun. Like, when I write something like "He did this and he did that" I want to make sure the audience knows WHICH he I'm referring to. I get subjects mixed up sometimes and I want to avoid that as much as possible.
> 
> I also want to make sure that my use of tenses is consistent. I'm trying to write this all in the present-tense, but I know sometimes I will get mixed up and use past-tense or another tense. I want to avoid that, too.
> 
> I'm also trying to be aware of using italics to indicate David's internal thoughts and commentary separate from my own. I'm trying to catch those instances when I do a quick read-through before posting, but some slip through. It can be confusing to read these opinionated statements and not know if they're what David is thinking or what the author is thinking. It relates to "voice" and whose "voice" are we hearing the story from. I WANT to have the story be told from David's voice but I can't help but insert my own voice unconsciously.


	3. Bepoke Strokes

[ David leaned against the door with a sigh, eyes sliding shut in pique. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_iJ02y4Dtug&list=PL86SFgBLJtWOy1O6PuLVSxZ2aGKndgkj2&index=5) 

It had been a while since he felt so utterly inept in front of someone else. He made a motion to rub his face--a nervous habit--but realized that he was still holding the offending sweet bread. With a hint of remorse, he tossed it into the wastebasket by the door and ventured further into the room, intending to put the entire unpleasantness behind him.

As far as workplaces go, David counted himself lucky to work for one that boasted such a sumptuous aesthetic. The exterior of Bespoke Strokes--David didn't come up with the name--mirrored the other sandy fronts of the other buildings in the Kingdom. Its interior, however, was renovated with wood paneling and flooring: rich mahogany and walnut wood, slightly glossy from their polished finish. It must have been an absolute nightmare to import from the lush West and install it into the stonework. David had many thoughts about his employer Ray, but he couldn't deny that the mercurial man had an eye for the extravagant. He could appreciate a man with good taste.

Bespoke Strokes was one of Ray's many business ventures that actually managed to stick: a calligraphy consulting firm for the common folk to commission transcription services from trained scribes. Traditionally, scribes were trained and conscripted into one of the three main branches of the Kingdom: the Magisterium, the Knight Guard, or the Guild Consortium. Most folks could not read or write, so literacy is a skill always in high-demand. Businesses like Bespoke Strokes-- _ugh_ \--serve a need in the market that will never wane as long as people can't write for themselves.

David settled in behind his desk, one of the eight arranged around the room, which were all made of a darker wood fashioned to look like stately antique pieces to be as functional as they were beautiful. There was a neat stack of papers waiting for him to copy and transcribe throughout the day. David stretched his neck, flexed his fingers, dipped his quill in the inkwell, and got to work.

To the untrained eye, scribe work must look monotonous and tedious. But to David, the single-minded focus required to accurately and legibly transcribe documents transports him into a meditative state where time slips away. Where all that exists is the feel of the quill whispering words onto the page. His incorrigible sister Alexis once said, "That's called, like, _flow_ , David." _Whatever_ it’s called, his skill in calligraphy is one of the few things that he’s proud of. It's uncouth to gloat, he knows, but no one can dispute hard facts: David's commision rates are the highest among the scribes employed here. His customer testimonies applaud his penmanship and artistic eye, for which he practiced tirelessly to hone and master. 

Writing always reminded David about his days as a student at the Magisterium. He remembers struggling. Failing. Staying up late in the dark and empty classroom to get the lines _just right_. Balling up countless failed attempts and starting over again. And again. Waking up with ink stains under his fingernails as if it replaced his blood.

The momentary reverie is broken when the bell above the front door rings as someone enters. David glances up to see Twyla, who waves with a blinding smile. Unbidden, David's mouth quirks up in response.

She learned quickly that David's not a hugger, so Twyla eases herself into the chair opposite of David's desk with an airy grace. "Hi, David! How are you today?" she greets.

David dips his quill in the inkwell. Cutting straight to business, David says, "Fine. What can I do for you today?"

Twyla perks up. "The restaurant sent me. We needed to update our menus." With that, she produces an unwieldy sheet of parchment that detailed the restaurant's current menu and handed it over. David recognizes it. He transcribed it himself approximately a year ago.

"Are you adding more things to your menu?" He asked, raising an incredulous brow. Restaurant Oasis was notorious for their seemingly endless list of dishes. Many of which, if David was being honest, weren't any good. Decent and edible, yes. A good option if one was starving and didn't care what they ate, just as long as it was cheap, fast, and filling. David himself was guilty of making late-night trips there to satisfy his own aching hunger, even if he had to drown his taste just to keep it all down.

Twyla shrugged, unabashed. "There's some Rivellon dishes that our cook can make really well! We think that it will draw in more nobles."

"Uh-huh," was all David could say. He couldn't imagine any of the Kingdom’s current gentry being caught dead in there, but a commission was a commission. "What needs to be added and when do you need it by?"

The perky waitress listed off the additions by memory, relaying what the cook told her. There were a total of ten, one of which was some sort of fish dessert, which made David cringe as he scribbled them down for later. 

"... And George said that we need fifteen copies by the end of next week," she finished. David hummed in affirmation, scanning his notes and the current state of the menu.

Usually after Twyla delivered commission requests on behalf of the restaurant, she would prattle on for a bit and then take her leave. Now, David realized belatedly, she remained quiet. David met her eyes and she said, "There's actually one more thing." She smiled again and this time it carried a note of uncharacteristic bashfulness. "Okay," David answered, head shaking in wariness.

"I want to send a letter to my aunt Theresa."

That, David did not expect. "Oh. Okay. Yeah. We can do that. Now?"

"Yes. If you don't mind."

"Of course not," David reassured. This kind of request came in occasionally. One in which someone wanted him to transcribe their words onto paper for personal reasons rather than for business or trade. At the beginning, David was taken aback at how people could share the intimate details of their lives so candidly with him--a complete stranger to them. But he supposed in their eyes he was nothing more than an extension of the quill he used to record their private feelings and moments. David pulled out a fresh piece of parchment, re-dipped his quill, and waited for Twyla to begin.

Twyla closed her eyes in her seat and smiled softly, as if seeing her aunt in front of her. "Hi, Nanny," she started. David's hand traced her words diligently. "I hope you are doing well and that your travels have been kind to you. Where are you now? Last I heard, you were on the Reaper's Coast in Rivellon. Did you end up finding the phoenix's nest? If you did, send me a feather so that I can see it for myself. You said watching it take flight was like watching a second sun rise into the sky. I want to see it," Twyla paused, lost in her mind's eye. "You get to see the whole world on your travels and get to see all it has to offer..." She smoothed out her apron, eyes still closed. "But I'm happy where I am. I'm happy with what I can do here." David’s brow furrows, but says nothing.

"... And lately the Knights have been patrolling more often." David's hand slips on the curve of an _e_ and grimaces. "I guess the Voidwoken have gotten really rowdy. Bishop Alexander keeps saying that we’re safer than we’ve ever been, but the group of Knights at the restaurant say that they keep finding more and more in the sands." They both still, feeling a similar sense of creeping dread. The topic of Voidwoken striked fear and morbid intrigue among the common folk of the Kingdom, which, David figured, now included him. Voidwoken were hideous beasts hellbent on causing destruction and death in their wake. They were monstrous creatures devoid of Source. David shivered. 

Twyla brightened, "But I'm sure it will be all right! The Knights know how to take of them better than anyone!" The moment passes, but the reminder leaves an ugly bruise upon the peaceful lie they live in, an illusory safety within the Kingdom’s walls. Soon after, Twyla signs off for the letter and hands over the coin to pay for the commission as well as for postage.

David reviews the draft letter. He’ll rewrite it again on nicer stationery and then hand it off to the Postal Guild for delivery. “Okay,” he says, mostly to himself. “I can make this work.”

“Thanks, David,” Twyla says, with easy sincerity. “You always make the prettiest letters.” 

“Uh,” David stammers, still unsure how to take a simple compliment after all this time. “Thank you.”

Twyla smiles, undeterred, and rises out of her seat. “And I like your new bag,” she compliments, nodding at the pouch resting on his side of the desk. It’s the pouch he got from the Sourcerer’s market stall this morning.

“Ah. Yes, well.” David’s arm flounces about erratically. “I thought I needed a bit more, um, color in my wardrobe.”

Twyla pointedly looks at his monochromatic attire, which he’d never deviated from in recent memory. “I see,” Twyla says, obviously humoring him. “Let me know if it works for you. Lady Saheila’s work is always so creative.”

David can feel his eyebrows climb to his hairline. “You know of her? The Sourcerer, I mean?” David had always knew Twyla herself was a fellow Sourcerer, ever since she came into the office of Bespoke Strokes all those years ago when he started working here. They never broached the topic openly, since it was obvious that neither of them were enrolled at the Magisterium, but Twyla’s presence had a certain magnetism about her that couldn't only be explained by her chipper personality. Sourcerers could usually detect one another, even in passing. It was like swimming in the same pool and feeling the ripples the other sent out by their movements.

Twyla, as ever, appeared unruffled by David’s shock. “Yes. She’s not a Lady of the nobility anymore, I hear, but everyone still uses her title,” she explained. “Folks at the restaurant say that she sets up shop at the market every morning, but she rarely gets any customers. It’s really too bad--her stuff’s really great!”

David hummed. The image of the sweet old lady sitting in her shawl behind her small, roughly-made stand for hours in the sweltering sun while people walked past without a second glance sent a tinge of pain through his heart. He was likely the only customer the Lady would have today, and he didn’t even spare the decency to have all his senses drawn out. The familiar sense of something bubbling underneath the surface returned. The same feeling that was prickling at the edge of his mind after leaving her stall. _Lady Saheila can’t get any customers to buy her legitimate Source goods because she doesn’t have a business license._  His brows furrowed. _The poor woman can’t_ get _a business license because there is no guild that regulates Source products._ Lost in thought, he barely registered Twyla’s goodbye and the chiming of the bell as she exited.

An idea was forming, and with it, a passion he never knew that dwelled within him: _A general store that is also a very specific store._ A place that would curate a selection of products from legitimate Source artisans and sell them on consignment under a unified brand, a unified storefront, to bring Source products from the fringes of the market to everyday folks and give Source artisans the opportunity to make a stable livelihood off their craft like any other artisan in the Kingdom.

Riding on this newfound wave of momentum, David hastily gathered his things and stacked the rest of his transcription work on his desk to resume later. This was more important. As he left the office, he knew that there was one person who had the connections he needed to make this dream a reality. Someone who worked for the Merchant Guild and specialized in branding and coordinating merchandise. He could already feel his mouth crinkle in annoyance.

Someone like Alexis Rose, his sister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof. I do a lot of telling instead of showing in this chapter. I don't know how else to provide exposition about this world.
> 
> This chapter is very much an interstitial. An in-between chapter that doesn't serve much plot purpose. It was difficult to write for that reason. There wasn't a climactic scene or significant plot point I needed to get across.
> 
> Again, I struggle with tenses in this chapter. I've tried to catch them all in my proofreading, but there are certainly some I haven't corrected.


End file.
